I love colour. We see the world in a riot of colour and without a doubt these different shades inspire me as a photographer. I love it when that hot and humid sun climbs high in the sky and lights up those shallow Indian Ocean flats. I am a complete sucker for a decent sunset with an angler fishing away right in the middle of it, and I love how in somewhere like BC, the whole place can arguably look even more appealing the moodier the weather gets. Now this is all to do with colour of course, and how the light works its magic upon our rather beautiful world.

The little purple fly floated high as it bounced down into the sluice. I followed it down with the rod tip at the current speed to preclude any slack. As the fly drifted into the deepest, narrowest part of the channel it disappeared and I felt a hard jolt. In a split second the salmon shot away upriver, tearing off seventy feet of line.

No mobile phones, no wi-fi, no contact with the outside for nearly two weeks, and as a result it feels like we are heading to the edge of the known world, when it was believed that if you went too far you dropped off the edge. I spend an age just looking out of the aeroplane window at an endless shimmering sea, blue sky, fluffy white clouds and literally nothing else, and nothing can actually look pretty ominous if you think about it. The fishing world may well know this as the Seychelles, but our destinations will end up putting us are far closer to Madagascar than Mahe, indeed in my mind it’s called the Seychelles primarily because you have no choice but to fly out to these “ultra-remote atolls” via Mahe, the capital of the Indian Ocean paradise known the world over as a luxury holiday destination. To me it’s the middle of nowhere that excites the living daylights of me and my heart is pumping with the sheer edge of the world remoteness of a trip like this. Into the wide blue yonder we go…

When people think of wild salmon and steelhead, I’m reasonably certain that most imaginations drift northward to Alaska. Storied runs, vast wilderness and glacier-fed rivers, the multitude of behemoth brown bears fattening themselves on these fish as they return from the sea. It’s a powerful image, perhaps one of the most iconic in the world of fish and fishing.

Prior to the 1849 gold rush and subsequent lumber boom, the coastal rim of California from its northern extreme 450 miles south to Monterey Bay was cloaked in a blanket of massive redwood trees. Many stood over 300 feet tall and over 20 feet in diameter. The oldest individuals dated back to before the time of the Roman Empire. Flowing amongst the two million towering acres were numerous rivers hosting what were undoubtedly some of the most prolific runs of steelhead, chinook salmon and coho salmon in the history of these iconic species. Today only 5% of these ancient forests remain. Similarly, the great runs of fish survive only in vestigial form. In 165 years much has vanished—but not before the region could incubate one of the sporting life’s great pleasures; Northern California’s Redwood Empire is the birthplace of steelhead fly fishing.

December, blue sky, and too cold to be out for too long, but too beautiful to not—new snow, as well, lots of it, and a month and some change having gone past since Callie and I last hunted, with elk season having swallowed me: the rhythm of those days, hiking so far, and then moving carefully in the woods, reading the tracks. Callie’s pure and beautiful heart trapped by the vagaries of my calendar rather than by her passion; a beautiful ice-queen awaiting the fortunes of the world to turn her way once again. Wanting things to be as they had been before. Watching me, each day, and waiting, and believing—but surely, wondering.

It’s impossible to say for certain how many birds are shot every year on game farms and preserves. Estimates go as high as 80 per cent of all the game birds taken in the U.S. That includes the two game-farm stalwarts—bobwhite quail and ringneck pheasant—as well as chukars and Hungarian partridge.

Drawing the short straw as the camp cook on your next hunting or fishing trip isn’t so bad—except for cleaning up the mess in the kitchen afterwards. It’s funny how everyone disappears as soon as the plates are licked clean. So, over the years I’ve discovered a few recipes that keep everyone well fed AND leave only one pot (or none at all) to clean when dinner’s over. Here are a few of my favorite easy camp dinner recipes that will feed four hungry hunters or anglers.

From the time we leave it each October, until we return the following season, I think about going “up north” to hunt grouse and woodcock out of “Camp Bonasa,” which is what we christened our good friend’s house where we stay. The “camp” is a comfortable lakeside cottage, one of two that have housed us, with all the amenities aging grouse hunters require, and so we are not really roughing it, nor have we ever, really. This country we have been going to each autumn for the past twenty-five years is for us a land of peaceful wonder that owns very big pieces of our hearts. And we are all grateful to have been guests for so many years.

For this western based photographer Atlantic salmon, the Silver Ghost, holds great intrigue. And, of equal draw are the unfamiliar environments where these mighty fish swim. From my distant geographically challenged home in the dusty West, the Gaspé Peninsula seems the appropriate iconic landscape for the king of sportfish, at least on this continent.